


Life is unfair, Sam

by marieincolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anaphylaxis, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Preseries, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes Dean to the ER for allergic shock, doesn't quite get the gratitude he expects for his heroic efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is unfair, Sam

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:**   
>   I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters, just borrowing. Not making any money, either.

It's mid winter. Really, Sam couldn't give more of a shit about the seasons, or the way they change, but it _is_ winter. A sucky one, too. No real snow to talk about, just.. Wet sludge that soaks through everything and anything, making sure that one of them will be wiping down the floors after they've gone out.

He blames that on the way you enter their cheap little flat. One bedroom, he shares that with Dean, and the living room with a couch where John sleeps. When he's there.

He stirs the pasta carefully, trying not to burn it. Anything to avoid the wrath of Dean.

It's nighttime. Ish. The darkness outside makes it feel like it's much later than it is, a kind of lethargy settled over him like his body expects him to go to sleep once it's dark.

Dean says it's his growth spurt, leaving him tired and achy and sprawled all over the floor where it's just more comfortable than in normal chairs.

A car speeds past, and he hears the splatter of sludge as it splatters the side of the road. This kind of winter means a damp car and soaked socks, neither of which is a favourite of his.

The door bangs shut a little while later, and Sam turns from where he's trying to manage the pot lid so the water drains out but leaves the pasta in the pot. The steam raises up, almost burns his face.

“Hey, man. You're just in time!” He calls, like Dean doesn't know he's just in time.

“Not now, man. Not.. Feeling so great.” Dean's voice is stressed, like when John calls and wants to give Dean a long list of things to do that he has to remember (“ _Dammit, this is important, boy!”)_

Sam knows that voice, because with it normally comes a change of mood in his brother. He's up and down like the mountains sometimes, and it's better to leave him alone or just chatter on through it if he gets this way.

Still, he can't shake the niggling feeling that there's something wrong. He doesn't know what yet, or if it's anything at all, but something in that stressed voice calls out the nurse in him just as Dean stumbles over to a chair and all but falls into it, leaning forwards while trying to pull his coat off rather than loosen the zipper. He's sweaty, hair wet around his face and nose nearly dripping. Sam grimaces.

  
“What's wrong?” He says loudly, hears the way his voice sounds alarmed in the small room. He puts the pot down, water still covering the pasta.

“Nothing, just.. Don't feel s'good. Leave me 'lone.”

A gloved hand waves at him, before going back to pulling the coat down like the zipper doesn't even exist. Sam crouches down in front of him, tries to get eye contact. He smells of fresh sweat, the way he does when he's been doing laps, and his face is red and blotchy.

“Where have you been, Dean?”

“Huh? Just.. Shop.” his brother pants, mouth opened wide like it's trying to draw in as much breath as possible despite the fact that Sam didn't see his brother doing anything even remotely strenuous since he burst through the door.

“Warm” Dean mumbles, and sam takes pity on him, opens the zipper while dean leans his head on his hand, elbows on knees and leaning forwards.

“All right” Sam says, trying to display some kind of calm. Without waiting any longer he traps his brother's wrist in his fingers and feels for his pulse. He knows it's _there,_ obviously, but the force and the speed it hits his index finger with is startling.

  
“Dude.. You okay? Talk to me, man. What's wrong?”

Dean tries to wave him off again, struggling to get out of his boots now. He manages finally, and Sam takes a step back because he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. His brother seems.. Out of it, but still driven. Like there's stuff he needs to get done.

When he sees Dean throwing off his coat, sweater and t-shirt all in one before starting in on every single item of clothing on his lower body he groans, grabs the phone, and dials 911. Doesn't press the green button just yet, just.. Keeps it close. Follows Dean who's weaving dizzily towards the bathroom.

“Dean? Dean! Talk to me, man, what's up? Where are you going?”

“John!” Dean answers quickly, closing the door hard behind him.

“Don't you dare lock it” he manages in a strangely strong voice.

There's a grunt, and a muffled curse aimed at him from behind the thin door. He's in there for an awfully long time, Sam shouting at him every ten seconds or so to talk back to him. The voice that responds, still cursing up a blue streak, is still breathless. Panting.

When ten minutes have passed and he can't get Dean to respond in _real words_ he opens the door. The room smells awful, but he doesn't care. Dean is on his hands and knees, face turned towards the door. Sam can't figure out what his brother is trying to do, but is painfully aware that he's butt naked.

Something is definitely wrong, because while his 20 year old brother will happily tell him about his sex adventures in horrifying detail, he normally keeps the nudity to a minimum. On the other hand, Sam supposes he doesn't barge in on his brother while he's in the bathroom very often and that's really the one room he can't blame Dean for being naked in.

“Dean? What the hell, man?”

He pulls his brother up by one arm, Dean struggling to get to his feet on his own. Still cursing and pushing him away.

He weaves past him again, drops to the bed and pants heavily. Sweat is dripping, and it's all Sam can do not to pull his hair out.

“Dude, if you don't talk to me I'm going to call 911. You hear me?”

Dean grunts, but turns to his side and makes the flappy hand-motion again to make him go away.

Sam presses the green button.

“911 what's your emergency?” a young man responds in the other end, and Sam finds himself rambling.

“Hi I'm Sam and something's wrong with my brother. He was just out walking but he came home all sweaty and itchy and his skin is all red and weird like he's been showering. And I can't get him to talk to me.”

“All right, Sam. It sounds like your brother is having an allergic reaction. Do you have any antihistamines nearby?”

Sam nods, wonders what set it off this time, then closes his eyes momentarily. “Yeah. How many should I give him?”

“Give him one or two. Is he awake?”

“Yeah, he's.. Sort of, but he's all weird. You can talk to him if you want.”

Dean takes the phone when Sam pushes it at him, but he seems annoyed and stressed again, the way he pushes Sam away when he has important things he needs to get done.

  
“You talk to them” he mumbles, then flaps the phone over to Sam again like talking to the ER people is a ridiculous idea, lies back and pants and scratches his stomach some more.

“He's not.. He's kinda confused. Should I take him to the ER?”

The man in the other end hesitates. “Listen, kid, I'd send a car right now, but you're farther away from the ER if I do. It'll take the car twenty minutes to get there, and then another twenty to get back. You understand? You keep the phone with you, and you call us if he starts having difficulty breathing.”

“He's kind of.. Panting” Sam almost whispers.

“Panting is all right. If he starts wheezing you call for an ambulance straight away, all right?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

  
“I'll make sure they're waiting for you.”

Sam doesn't remember what the man says next, thinks maybe they hang up, but there's no time to stress over that stuff now. Dean's eyes are closed and he's still panting the way he would after a hard sprint. Sam focuses on getting a pair of sweats onto his brother's lower body.

“Dude, what?” Dean mumbles, foggily.

“ER, Dean. Right now. Come on, get dressed.”

“No way.” he pants. “In hell.”

“Yeah, way. Come on, man.”

He hesitates.

“You're kinda.. Scaring me here, you know?”

It's not really true. The whole situation, uncomfortable and embarrassing and all sorts of crazy shit isn't scary anymore, because he's seen this happen before. He's just never had to take Dean into the ER all alone. Still, scared Sam is Dean's kryptonite.

His brother looks up at him, confusion evident on his face, but starts listening.

“I'm in charge here, man. Get dressed. We're leaving.”

The car ride is horrible. Dean moans and complains that he's driving too fast, that he's going to get pulled over even though Sam is barely breaking the speed limit. He rolls his eyes, keeps telling himself that his brother is confused and dizzy and probably feels like he's on a roller coaster right now.

They roll up to the front doors just as Dean starts listing to the side, suddenly wheezing painfully. Sam has time to see the white in his eyes before he's running in through the doors, shouting for help. There's a swarm of people, sticking needles in his brother's thighs, hooking up IV's and handing Sam paperwork.

“I'm.. He's 20.” Sam clarifies. They ask him to call his dad, because while Dean is most certainly an adult, Sam isn't.

So Sam does, gets an earful of shit despite just having saved his brother's life, and hangs up. He's three days away, not coming back sooner when Dean is already better.

Dean wakes up, more alert half an hour later after chewing Sam out over his choice of clothes ( _“Dude, these are_ yours!”), and after the doctor's been talking to them they're cleared to leave. Dean has four new pieces of paper in his pocket when they reach the reception, almost completely empty of people at the moment. Sam stops to get their receipt, happy to leave and anxious to get his now sleepy brother to bed, because one look at his brother reveals a groggy, dizzy boy that looks no older than twelve with his blotchy face and droopy eyes.

Really, who figured out medication that makes you feel the _exact same way_ helps?

He's smiling to the lady who wishes them a good night just as Dean drops to his knees, and vomits violently into a trash can. Sam sighs, feels his shoulders droop as a helpful nurse comes running with paper basins and napkins to keep in the car on their way home.

Dean sleeps in the car, doesn't vomit, and Sam is grateful as all hell.

He pushes Dean to bed. Leaves him water and super strength allergy pills to take that night and the next morning, puts the note for a epi-pen in his own wallet to pick up the next day (because Dean never will), and goes to bed feeling like he's done his good deed for the day.

The next morning at breakfast, Dean is all better. Nausea gone, steady on his feet.

Sam expects praise as he huddles over his cereal, but when he brings the topic up Dean says “Dude, I wasn't that bad.” And Sam doesn't hear the undertone of sarcasm that normally accompanies his brother's announcements that he's fine, that little piece of bone has always been poking through the skin on his arm, or that everyone bleeds from the ears now and again.

John doesn't see anaphylactic shock as anything to hurry home over, and Dean was obviously out of it enough that he doesn't remember that his brother did something good, for once.

He's pretty sure if he was any other kid he'd get a pat on the shoulder, at the very least. College is too fucking far away.

 


End file.
